Pretty Follies
by jikanet-tanaka
Summary: Anarietta loves her wayward sister as much as Regis loves his misguided savior. Perhaps that is not such a good thing. A little character study of Anna Henrietta and Regis, seen through the prism of their relationships with Syanna and Dettlaff. Spoilers for Blood & Wine.


Your first memory in life is of a girl with black hair and bright, mischievous blue eyes.

You are the beloved baby sister of Princess Sylvia Anna of the Duchy of Toussaint. Every day you follow her on toddling, unsteady legs; she laughs and grins as she leads you by the hand, the ducal palace becoming the site of many wondrous adventures. She calls you Anarietta and you call her Syanna, and the two of you develop a secret language that not even your esteemed parents can decipher. She has a feisty soul and a dry wit, and you can't think of a better partner to explore a world filled to the brim with undiscovered wonders. Still, whenever a nightmare troubles her, you are the one to climb into her bed and hug her until she stops screaming.

She is the sister you love with all your heart, and you are proud that her blood flows through your veins.

* * *

Your first memory of your second life is of a man with black hair and cold, piercing blue eyes.

You are the unlucky patient of a kind vampire named Dettlaff van der Eretein. Every day you wake up to find him by your bedside; he sits and smiles as he listens to your stories, seemingly hanging onto every word of your outlandish tales. He is the first to call you Emiel in a long, _long_ time, and the two of you find comfort in hearing someone else speaking the language of your people. He has a shy disposition and an insatiable curiosity, and you can't imagine spending another day without his silent, reassuring presence by your side. Still, whenever a veil of sadness falls upon him, you are the one to grab his hand and offer gentle platitudes until the light comes back to his eyes.

He is the savior you love with all your heart, and you feel privileged that his blood flows through your veins.

* * *

You are deaf to the rumours that surround your sister, blissfully unaware of the worried whispers of your servants and tutors. _The Curse of the Black Sun_, they say behind her back—never within hearing range of your parents, of course, but never far enough from your innocent ears. When you are old enough, you glare and huff at those liars, those two-faced sycophants; still, your gut seems to fill with lead as you finally understand why they were so bold with their disingenuous claims.

Because your parents chose to believe that Syanna was cursed at birth—that she is a heartless, treacherous being who is incapable of feeling any love or empathy.

You close your eyes to the warning signs as you grow out of childhood. To you, Syanna is charming and facetious, always ready to turn a boring world upside down for the amusement of her little sister. To everyone else, she is petty, cruel even. Indeed, whenever your parents chastise her for her behaviour, she sneers and smirks. _Why should I care?_ she tells you one night after a particularly harsh (and underserved, in your opinion) punishment. _They had made up their minds even before they knew the truth of the matter._ She leans down and ruffles your hair. _Don't worry your pretty little head, sister. Things will look up for me once I get the throne, you'll see._

You smile ruefully: she is right, of course, how silly it was of you to worry.

* * *

You are blind to the rage hidden behind the still waters that form Dettlaff's facade, willfully ignorant of the way his emotions surge like the waves hitting the shore. _Blood-drinking freaks_, you can almost hear a frenzied mob crying out, bringing terrifying memories to the surface of your mind. When you are strong enough to stand, you press the ring of your master into Dettlaff's palm, as a reminder that he should live as a person and not a beast; your heart swells with pride as he slides the ring on one finger, promising you that he would try to follow your ideals.

Because you refuse to believe that Dettlaff came to this world a monster—that by the circumstances of his very birth he is unworthy of deserving any love or empathy.

You avert your eyes to his faults the more you grow to know him. To you, Dettlaff is sensitive and vulnerable, a kind soul who is slowly recovering from the unexplained disappearance of the one he loves. To everyone else, he is brusque, quick to anger. Indeed, whenever he is reminded of the uglier parts of human society, he snarls and strains at the leash. _Calm yourself_, you tell him, almost amused by his childlike temper. _As sentient beings,_ _we have been blessed with higher faculties, have we not? Why, then, let yourself be driven by mere impulsions?_

He smiles ruefully: you are right, of course, how silly it was of him to worry.

* * *

You throw a screaming fit the moment you learn she is to be exiled.

You spend your teenage years wrecked with guilt (after all, you could have protested your parents' decision, you could have _stood up_ for her) and spite. Outwardly, you are the perfect daughter, the perfect pupil, the perfect _princess_. Indeed, once false move and who knows what your supposedly noble parents would do? Your parents who have already stricken one daughter out of the royal records, who have all but sent her out to the wolves? Your parents who have arranged to marry you to a worm of a man, a serial adulterer who once threatened to beat you because you had found love in the arms of another?

Why, when you ascend the throne upon their deaths, there is a moment where your lips form a slight, fleeting smile. And when that uncouth boor calling himself your husband croaks as well, that smile turns to an unladylike grin. You do not rest on your laurels, however; now that the reins of power are finally in your hands, you send agents in search of Syanna.

Years pass, and still there is no hide nor hair of your wayward sister. Again, you put up a brave front—you are Duchess Anna Henrietta of Toussaint, the last in a line of strong, powerful women. You love your people, and they return that love a thousand-fold. When a terrible beast slaughters two of your best knights, you are quick to act for the sake of those within your care. You send for a monster-slayer, beseeching him to find the creature who would so callously murder good, virtuous men. The witcher Geralt answers the call, and you find that an invisible weight has been lifted off your shoulders, sure with the knowledge that justice would soon be served.

* * *

You are silent with shock the morning you wake to find Dettlaff gone.

You spend the next months wracked with fear and worry. You drag your weakened carcass across the Nazairi countryside, following what little clue you can find to chase after your wayward friend. The trail leads you to the duchy of Toussaint—a once idyllic land that is now apparently under the threat of a mysterious, bloodthirsty beast. _A beast_, you think, breath catching in your throat as your mind is filled with images of mutilated bodies and screaming mobs of peasants seeking violent retribution. _Oh, my friend, what have you done?_

Urgency dogs your every step as you finally catch Dettlaff's scent—figuratively and literally. You find yourself pierced by his claws as you jump between him and the monster-slayer hired to kill the so-called beast—your old friend Geralt, you find out, your heart giving a jolt. Dettlaff retreats to lick his wounds, but not before admonishing you for leaving the safe space of your shared home.

Still, hope blooms in your chest even as he flutters away in a puff of mist: you've found him at last and gained an ally in Geralt, a man that you respect above all others. You beg the witcher for his help, imploring him to shine a light on the dreadful reasons that must have pushed Dettlaff toward murder. Geralt promises to assist you, and you find yourself sighing in relief, safe with the knowledge that Dettlaff would not be simply hunted and put down like a rabid animal.

* * *

Oh, how naïve you were.

The situation comes to a head at Dun Tynne after your knights storm the castle to assist the witcher and his strangely skittish companion (Emiel Regis, yes, that is his name). There, at the entrance of the keep you are met with a ghost: crow's feet line the corners of her eyes and a sword hangs at her hip, but otherwise Syanna looks like she just stepped out of your hazy childhood memories.

You rush to your sister and you have to rein in your wish to embrace her—after all, such an open demonstration of affection would not do, not after after spending most of your lifetimes apart. She is colder than ice, contempt tainting every word that comes out of her mouth, and you gleam a hint of something strange, something _frightening_, in her blue gaze. There is no time to waste on conjecture and mere feeling, however. Geralt and Regis, it turns out, have let the beast slip through their fingers, and you _tear_ into them when you realize just how much they kept from you, out of sympathy for the murderous _monster_ who is now threatening your sister's life, who is now seeking to lay waste to your home, to your _people_.

_You have three days to bring me his head!_ you order the incompetent witcher and his equally useless friend, cold fury dripping from your voice. _No more secrets, no more helping vampires. _

_You have three days…_

* * *

Oh, how naïve you were.

The situation comes to a head after you slaughter your way through the mercenary-infested keep of Dun Tynne. There, at the top of the tower, you and Geralt bring about the reunion of Dettlaff and the elusive Rhena. But the fairytale moment is ruined by the harsh pull of reality.

Everything happens too fast, and you cannot react accordingly. In the blink of an eye, Dettlaff has wrapped one hand around the neck of his Rhena—or Syanna, as it seems she is called. You are too stunned to move as he gives her one last attempt to justify her betrayal before flying out the window in a wisp of smoke. You cannot defend yourself or Geralt as the duchess—Syanna's _sister_—chews you out, shrilly commanding the two of you to bring her Dettlaff's head. You barely listen to her hysterical reprimands; in your mind, all you can hear is Dettlaff's voice as he abandons himself to hatred.

_You will to come to Tesham Mutna and explain all_, he had told the duplicitous Rhena, voice low and crackling like ice. _If you do not, I will raze Beauclair to the ground. This, I promise you._

_You've three days…_

* * *

Three days later, and your beloved city is aflame.

It is your worst nightmare come to life. You are dragged around the palace by a pack of panicking royal guards while the screams of your people fill the air. You steel yourself to order an evacuation of the capital and try not to flinch the first time you see someone's head being torn off by a shrieking she-vampire. It is the longest night of your life, and a small, infinitesimal part of yourself wonder if you should have agreed to the vampire's demands, if you should have given him your sister's life in exchange for the safety of your subjects.

Of course, as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you swat it away, disgusted with your weakness. Your parents have already failed Syanna, failed her so thoroughly that she had been forced to choose an altogether dark path to make a life for herself.

No, you tell yourself, she shares your blood, and you will cherish and protect her. You'll defend her from the hate-filled monster who once pretended to be a man deserving of her love, and you'll bring her home.

* * *

Three days later, and your beloved friend has made good on his threats.

It is your worst nightmare comes to life. You and Geralt rush around the burning city, battling hordes of lesser vampires preying on the terrified citizens of Beauclair. Your steel-strong surgeon's nerves get put to the test as you helplessly watch dozens, no, _hundreds_ of innocents being torn to shreds. It is the longest night of your life, and you grow surer by the hour that some of the blame can be laid at your feet; after all, you are the one who advocated for peace and mercy when everybody else pushed for swift and bloody retribution.

Of course, as soon as the realization sweep through your mind, it only makes the flames of self-hatred burn brighter. You have failed Dettlaff, failed him so thoroughly that he has thrown all pretense of humanity away and become the monster you always said he was not.

Yes, you think with a pang, you share his blood, and he has cherished and protected you. You'll grant him the chance to make peace with the manipulative, sneering snake of a woman who once professed to love him, and you'll bring him home.

* * *

The bright rays of the morning sun is warm on your skin when you and Syanna are finally reunited.

She spits venom at you, unmindful of the onlookers who gasp at such uncouth behaviour. You know the entirety of your court would love nothing more than to see her on the gallows for her role in the destruction wrought upon Beauclair only a few days past. Still, you lay bare your heart for all to see as you reach out to Syanna, not as the Duchess of Toussaint, but as a woman of means and privilege trying to make up for decades of betrayal and heartache. Your sister has grown hateful enough through her years of exile that she wanted to _kill_ you—it is a bitter pill to swallow, but one you accept all the same.

And so when your words aren't enough to convey your feelings you grab your sister tightly, encircling her with both arms. She hesitates, hisses in protest… but then you sense her hands gripping the back of your dress, and you hear her give a long, deep sigh as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.

You feel the warmth of her heartbeat as she smiles, safely tucked within the confines of your embrace.

Her exile is finally over, and you know she is home at last.

* * *

The stench of smoke and blood still cling to you when you finally catch up with Dettlaff.

His rage comes to a boiling point as he sees Syanna, and he ignores her desperate (and perhaps genuine, though it is hard to tell with one such as her) attempts at an apology. You are poised to rush toward them when his clawed hand run through her gut—only to close around a handful of petals as she disappears into thin air. Again, you do not have the luxury of hesitation; a blink of an eye later, and Dettlaff is lunging at Geralt, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. You do not waver as you jump to the witcher's aid, sealing Dettlaff's fate.

And so when he is finally at death's door you grab your friend's convulsing form, sinking your teeth into his neck. He becomes tense in your arms, lets out a low growl… but then you sense him weakening, and you hear him utter a soft whine as his body grows limp.

You almost believe you can feel his fading heartbeat as he falls at your feet, blue eyes still wide open.

His blood tastes sour in his mouth, and you know your exile has just begun.


End file.
